


Not Making Plans

by Harpokrates



Series: Little Lies [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, The Force, gonk droid isnt a character tag but theres one of those, shopping montage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22176895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpokrates/pseuds/Harpokrates
Summary: One of the less obvious downsides to being a slave is the bad fashion. Luke goes on a shopping spree, Fett hunts. Eventually these two things co-incide.
Series: Little Lies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596328
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61





	Not Making Plans

"Look at the carbon scoring on this one," Luke takes, crouching down to pick at the scorch marks on the plastisteel chassis of the R4 unit. "I bet they swapped out the copper wiring for aluminum. This thing will last a week before it explodes."

"Uh-huh."

Fett wasn't listening to him, but that didn't really matter because he was only here to hand the merchant his credit chit after Luke picked out a droid to his liking. "Say what you will about Jawas, but they don't try and cheat you out of a good droid."

Luke scanned the yard for another R-series. He sighed and kicked a scrap of metal.

"Industrial Automaton is really top of the line too. An older R-series would have been perfect."

"Thought you were my mechanic."

Luke glared at him. "Excuse me if I can't speak Mandalorian binary or run the calculations to put your garbage ship into hyperspace."

"Whatever. Can't you just pick a different one?"

"What? You have somewhere to be?" Luke resumed picking through the yard. A Q-series was too advanced, and an MSE couldn't do the math fast enough. It was entirely possible to pilot a ship without droid assistance, but after a few weeks of embedding his fingerprints in the co-pilot's chair during takeoff, landing, hyperspace, atmospheric flight, etc, he'd put his foot down and demanded that Fett find an astromech to augment his horrible, horrible flying.

"Well?"

Fett shrugged, which meant yes. Probably a bounty he didn't want to tell Luke about, or he was visiting whores. The scuttlebutt around Jabba's had been particularly salacious about the Hutt's mysterious masked bounty hunter. Half of the dancers claimed to have slept with him, and half of the dancers were probably lying.

"Just leave me then." Luke waved him off. "I'll be here for a while."

Fett grunted. Luke ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Fett paid him a salary, as promised, and a good one too, but Luke had his doubts if he would actually be allowed to leave when it came down to it.

"Suit yourself." Luke stepped over a row of burnt out protocol droids and continued searching. He would never admit it, but he was pretty close to giving up and taking the terrible R4 when he saw a boxy green silhouette.

"A GNK-series!" He exclaimed, scrambling over a pile of scrap parts. Luke knelt in the sand next to it and ran his hands over the seams. "It's in perfect condition! I can't believe my luck!"

"A gonk droid?" Fett sounded incredulous. "What do you want that box on legs for?"

Luke rolled his eyes and squinted up at Fett. "Your problem is that you slapped upgrade after upgrade onto your ship, and it's so strained from trying to keep your targeting systems intact that the onboard computer can't kick in to assist with navigation or autopilot."

"Say something else about my flying."

Luke raised his hands. "Anyways. I can route the weapons systems through the GNK and give the main computer back to the flight system."

Fett wore the helmet constantly, but Luke could  _ feel _ him narrowing his eyes. "And that'll work?"

"Who do you think I am? You really think Jabba would keep  _ me _ around if I wasn't the best there was at repairing stuff?" Luke gestured up and down himself. If Luke hadn't been useful, Jabba would have sold him the instant his uncle missed a payment. The threat of having your nephew shipped offworld was enough to convince Owen Lars to make sure his payments were on time and in full, no matter how many vaporators he had to sell to make ends meet.

Fett shrugged. "Fair."

Luke powered on the GNK and initialized it, then ran it through a standard series of checks. "Really, this thing is amazing. I can't believe someone threw it away. C'mon, buddy."

He patted it on the head and started walking towards the yard entrance.

"Don't call it buddy."

"What's wrong with me calling it buddy?"

"It's a droid."

"Says the guy who looks like a droid."

"Can it."

"Right, like a tin can."

They bickered all the way up to the merchant, an old woman bundled up in a colorful cloak. She didn't speak Basic, and neither Fett nor Luke spoke Savarian, so Fett placed a handful of credits in front of her. She spread them out with the side of her hand, then gestured upwards. Fett put a credit on the pile.

She looked at the money, looked at Fett, raised an eyebrow, then gestured up again.

Fett sighed deeply and put another credit on the pile.

She gestured up.

"I'm leaving." Fett abruptly turned around. The old woman looked at him, looked at Luke, then looked back down at the credits, an eyebrow raised.

Luke reached forwards and took one between his finger and his thumb, holding it up to the light and watching the gold sparkle. Then he looked down at the woman, and prepared himself to feel bad.

"You want to sell me the droid."

For a moment, it didn't seem like it would work. It shouldn't have worked, given that they didn't even share a common language.

The woman muttered something under her breath, rubbing her forehead. Then she looked at the GNK and nodded.

"You want to charge me this much." He gestured to the money, trying to project a confidence he didn't rightly feel.

She said something in Savarian, sounding dazed, then aimed a remote at the GNK. The restraining bolt fell off.

"Thank you," Luke exhaled, grinning.

He jogged to catch up with Fett before he got too far, the GNK waddling to match his pace.

"Hey," he said, out of breath, "I got it. Here's your change."

Luke pressed the coin into Fett's palm. Fett looked at the coin, then at the droid, then at him.

"You're bad at haggling," he said. Fett grunted. Luke couldn't see his face, and he was hard to read through all that armor, but he got the impression of disapproval, and anger, and far, far underneath that, sorrow.

Fett didn't like it when he used his little mind tricks—called them Jedi witchcraft or somesuch. Luke took care not to do it too blatantly in front of him—or  _ to _ him, considering that lead to a blaster knocking against his forehead, but it was useful, even if he did feel bad about tricking an old woman out of her money.

"I'm gonna take the droid back to the ship." Luke jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "It's in good condition but it still needs a tune up and a good oil bath."

Fett didn't look at him. "Sure."

"You gonna come with me?"

"No."

"Ooookay." Clearly this conversation was over. Luke parted ways and walked back along the outskirts of Ustrao, Savareen's only port town. It was half marketplace, half cantina, designed to cater to the thousands of ships making the Kessel Run to the Core. Luke made it back to the shipyard and found Fett's Firespray, the Slave 1. He didn't like the name.

He pulled down the cargo ramp and herded the GNK onto the ship. It gonked at him reproachfully.

"Aw, c'mon. There's an oil bath in it for you."

It beeped again, and continued it's slow shuffle up the ramp. Luke stepped ahead of it and prepped an oil soak. He hadn't lied to Fett—he was going to clean and maintenance the droid—but while that was happening, he was going to explore the space port.

He loaded the droid onto the lifter, then lowered it into the oil.

"Alright. You stay there. I'll be back soon."

It gonked at him.

"I'll be  _ back. _ " Luke said, pursing his mouth.

He found his stash of credits and tucked the pouch into the collar of his shirt. First priority: new clothes. Something that didn't look like they'd been worn through a dozen times and taken off a dead man. After that, maybe he'd pick up some new tools. Fett's ship was pretty well outfitted, but it was obvious he'd inherited it that way. His familiarity with it was distant—he'd had the ship for ages but he wasn't the one who made it that way.

If Luke was curious, he might've cared to know the story behind it.

But he wasn't, and right now, all he wanted was a tunic without bloodstains on it.

Luckily, it seemed like the droid merchant was an outlier, because most people spoke basic, and Luke was easily able to find directions to the Grand Bazaar.

Grand was a good name for it. Luke let himself be dragged along by the current of the crowd. The sights, the sounds, the smells. It was maddening—he could barely stand to blink in case he missed something. His eyes caught on a flash of blue, and he pushed his way out of the press of the crowd and over to the covered shop of a spice merchant. He picked up a pinch of a bright blue powder and sniffed it.

"Careful," the Trandoshan owner chided him, "poisonous to humans."

Luke dropped the spice, his eyes wide, and quickly wiped his hand off on his pants. The Trandoshan laughed at him, then waved him towards a different pot of spice. 

"This one is safe."

Luke sniffed it, then touched his fingertip to his tongue.

"Ah," he yelped, sticking his tongue out. The Trandoshan tossed her head back and laughed.

"It's spicy!" Luke rounded on her.

"Burnak root powder." She nodded. "Good in soup."

Luke frowned, then had a horrible idea. "Alright. A little."

The Trandoshan scooped some out into a piece of flimsi and rolled it up, tying it shut with a bit of string. "Two credits."

Luke handed her the money and tucked the paper packet in his back pocket. He left the stall and wandered around, eyes peeled for anything he liked. He picked up a spanner and a new soldering stick, and a few less necessary things, like a packet of tea and some local sweets.

He couldn't pronounce or remember what the baker had called it, but it was sticky and flakey and extremely delicious. Luke licked his fingers clean as he walked. Tatooine didn't have anything like this. Even before he was forfeiture, Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had only ever taken him up to Mos Eisley once. It was loud and crowded, yes, but it was also a Hutt world, so the chances of him seeing someone get stabbed to death were really high. They didn't stay long.

After that, he spent most of his time in Anchorhead, waiting for Biggs to show up so Luke could borrow his skyhopper and race through Beggar's canyon. Luke shook the thought from his mind. He didn't like thinking about his friends back home.

His eyes lighted on a flash of bright fabric. Besides, he had other things to do. Luke stepped into the shade of the covered stall, self-consciously wiping his hands on his trousers. He ignored the fluttering silks and instead headed for the more utilitarian section in the back.

"Do you need any help?" A tall man stepped around a rack of clothing, looking hassled.

"I'm just looking for a flight suit." Luke said absently.

"I'll leave you to it." A woman shouted. The man's face fell. "Coming, mother!"

He  _ was  _ looking for a flight suit—something utilitarian that he could cover in oil stains so he didn't continue to ruin his good clothes. He found a set that fit him, in khaki, and tucked it over his arm. He added a clean tunic and a pair of trousers to the pile as well. He mulled over a poncho for a moment, then remembered how cold Fett kept his ship, and found one in a pale, rusty red. It was the only bit of color that wasn't offwhite or sand, but Tatooine did that to someone.

His boots were actually Fett's, given that he'd escaped from Jabba's sans shoes, and were new. They fit well enough, especially considering Fett was a good ten centimeters taller than him, but that was probably because he wore two pairs of socks, because, again, Fett and his hatred of anything resembling comfortable temperatures. They didn't sell shoes here anyways, and he wanted to be back at the ship before Fett returned from his… whatever.

Needed to be. Luke scoffed. If Luke ran, Fett would find him, no matter how well he hid or how far he went. He'd heard tales of Jabba's fearsome Mandalorian, but gossip didn't live up to the reality. Fett was a crap pilot and a poor fighter, but he could find anyone, anywhere, and he used his reputation like a weapon. Luke bolted, and they'd both drop the pretense that he wasn't a glorified captive, and Fett could stuff him in the hold until…

Until what? That was the crux of it. Luke still didn't know why Fett had let him go. He really did need a mechanic, but there were better ways of getting one than stealing him from the Hutts. Luke had something Fett wanted, and it probably had to do with the 'Jedi' he had mentioned once and then never again. Lule just had to figure out what it was.

"Interested?"

Luke jumped, then turned around. The speaker was a withered old lady, stooped by the years, in a simple white dress and an elaborately patterned red shawl. Luke looked back at whatever he had been staring at while lost in his thoughts.

Ah. It was the bright flutter of silk that first drew him over to the stall. It was nearly translucent and dyed in shifting pastels, yellow to pink to purple. It was a dress, or perhaps a robe. It had an ornate metal collar.

Luke shrugged, reaching out his free hand to run it through the silk. "It's pretty."

"Or perhaps this." The old woman gestured to a gold lame monstrosity. It was a bodysuit with flared sleeves and a plunging v-neck. Luke grimaced. The old woman saw his face and laughed. She walked over to him and plucked the hem of the dress, drawing out the rippling silk.

"You know, the rumors say this was part of the Queen of Naboo's legendary wardrobe. It was," she waved her fingers, "scattered to the reaches of the galaxy after her untimely death."

"Sure." Luke said flatly. It was pretty, and he had always been a little vain, but his days of playing dress up in his aunt's clothes were fifteen years behind him.

He gave the merchant a handful of credits and stuffed his new clothes in his backpack, but he couldn't tear his eyes off the dress. It was familiar. Why was it familiar? He was sure he'd never seen it before, but he had a sense of deja vu. No, no, it was more like a feeling. He ran his hand over the metal collar. It felt like… a hug. Like sitting in the kitchen and drinking blue milk, or holding a light for Uncle Owen while he cussed at the vaporators.

"How much?" He found himself asking.

An embarrassing amount of credits later, the dress was stuffed under his poncho and hidden deep, deep in his backpack. Fett would never let him hear the end of this if he knew about it.

Luke was basically out of money, and more importantly out of time, so he aboutfaced and headed back to the ship. He was just back at the dockyards when he heard a blaster fire.

"Oh no." He groaned. It was an EE-3 carbine with an ESB modification, and the only reason he knew that was because Fett could barely make it a day planetside without shooting someone.

He pushed through the crowd to find Fett at the center of it, standing across from a Zygrian who was clutching his shoulder. Smoke wafted off of the burned fur.

"Dead or alive, Tosh. Your choice."

Fett usually wasn't so dramatic, instead choosing to wait in his targets' ships, or pulling then aside in shady bars. He must have had a larger plan.

Tosh, the Zygrian, stepped back, his eyes darting wildly around the crowd. Before Luke could see him move, he reached a furry paw out, and grabbed Luke by the arm, dragging him over and putting a gun to his head. Luke dropped his bag and grasped his hands around Tosh's forearm, trying to keep himself from being accidentally throttled.

Underneath the panic, Luke had the brief, hysterical thought that this was becoming a habit.

"Let me go, bounty hunter," Tosh hissed, "or the human gets a new hole in his head."

Instead of saying something like 'don't care', and shooting Tosh, then finding a new mechanic, Fett hesitated, dipping his aim.

Under his own panic, Luke could sense the undercurrent of something else. Fear from Tosh, excitement from the crowd, and something like dread from Fett. Interesting. He didn't take the time to examine it because he was too busy trying not to breathe too hard.

"Back up! All of you!" Tosh shouted, and the crowd parted for him. He glanced back for a second, then started dragging Luke backwards. Luke met Fett's visor and widened his eyes, glancing over at Tosh. Fett slowly shook his head, steadily advancing as Tosh retreated towards the industrial dockyard.

"Ah," he jammed the blaster against Luke's head, "you stay right there, hunter! You follow me, he dies."

Fett stopped.

"What the hell, Fett?" Luke yelped, before Tosh jerked him back and picked up the pace. He dragged then back into an abandoned building. By the look of it, it used to produce engine components; now, it produced rust.

"Friends?" Tosh said. Luke could feel him looking around the factory.

"Do _your_ friends let you get taken hostage?"

"Heh." Tosh laughed, then sighed. "Sorry about this, kid, but I'm not going back to Dathomir."

He flicked the safety off.

Luke jammed his hand is his pocket and flung the flimsi of spice at Tosh's face, the he dropped and bolted. Tosh howled with pain, staggering back and covering his eyes. Luke only made it a few feet before Tosh grabbed his leg and yanked it back.

"I was gonna make this easy." He growled, eyes streaming, and took aim between Luke's eyes.

Luke cast around the building desperately, then looked about Tosh's head. There was an overhanging rafter, still attached to the ceiling with a few rusty bolts. He reached out to it. His fear, his terror surged, but under that was a steady tide— his deep, burning will to live.

There was something there. Something ephemeral, swirling through the air. Around him. Around Tosh. He willed the rafter to fall.

"What? Think someone is coming to your rescue? You—"

Tosh was cut off. Luke scrambled backwards, wide eyes fixed on the growing puddle of blood where Tosh's upper body had been.

He looked up at where the rafter had been, then stared at his hand. He waved. Nothing happened. Was it coincidence, then? Luke looked back at Tosh and spotted his blaster just under the rafter. He exhaled and reached out to it, focusing, trying to tap into whatever flash of emotion he grasped at when Tosh was aiming a gun at his face. 

Luke crinkled his eyes, breathing harshly. He could feel sweat running down the back of his neck when finally, the blaster twitched.

He fell back, gasping for breath.

"He went through here!"

Luke looked up at the voice. The Savareen guard stepped into the building, blasters raised. One of them turned towards Luke, who raised a hand to block the flashlight from shining in his eyes.

"Found him." The guardsman said, stepping forwards. His foot landed in a puddle of blood. "Ah, found them both."

He reached down and patted Luke on the shoulder. "Are you alright, son?"

"I, uh. Yeah." Luke murmured weakly. "The metal," he gestured at it, "it fell."

"Weak building." The guardsman agreed, looking cautiously up at the ceiling. "We should get out of here."

The guardsman helped him and slung Luke's arm over his shoulder, then basically carried him out of the building. The other guardsmen finished looking at the body and followed suit. A good portion of the crowd who had been watching Fett and Tosh's fight had followed them, which was probably why the guard had been called. Two men having a shootout was fine, but someone must have objected when they dragged an innocent bystander into it.

"Skywalker!" Came a shout, and Fett pushed his way through the crowd. The guardsmen raised their rifles at him. "He's my mechanic."

Luke nodded wearily, and the guardsman handed him off to Fett, then returned to looking at the building and wondering how they were going to get Tosh out without the entire thing coming down on them.

"You alright?" Fett held him at arm's length by the shoulders. 

Luke narrowed his eyes. "I'd be a lot better if you didn't get me caught up in your bounties."

"Sure. You're not injured, are you?"

Luke shrugged him off. "I'm fine. What do you care?"

Fett looked off, and Luke wasn't sure he was even going to respond when he spoke slowly. "I need a mechanic."

Untruth. The lie light up like fire behinds Luke's eyes. Fine. He could keep his secrets. Luke was never going to tell him what really happened to Tosh.

"Grabbed this for you." Fett hefted Luke's backpack. 

"Thanks."

Fett stepped into the building and grabbed Tosh's lower half, then slung it over his shoulder, ignoring the disgusted and shocked looks from the guardsmen and bystanders alike. Luke followed him to the local governor's office, not really paying attention to anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.

This was different than using his tricks to get a good deal on a droid, or even to keep himself safe at the Palace. This was murder. Just because Tosh had been trying to kill him didn't mean he hadn't used his tricks to kill someone. Luke looked down at his hand, ignoring Fett argue with the governor. And this was a new trick—the power to move something without touching it.

"Hey," Fett touched his shoulder. Luke jumped.

"What?"

Fett said nothing, then: "I got the bounty. I'm leaving."

"Right." Luke followed him back to the Slave 1.

"You going to be alright?"

"Yeah."

They walked in silence.

"Why'd you buy a dress?"

"Shut up."

* * *

Omake:

"Or perhaps this." The old woman gestured to a gold lame monstrosity. It was a body suit with flared sleeves and a plunging v-neck. Luke grimaced. The old woman saw his face and laughed. She walked over to him and plucked the hem of the dress, drawing out the rippling silk.

"You know, the rumors say this was part of the Queen of Naboo's legendary wardrobe. It was," she waved her fingers, "scattered to the reaches of the galaxy after her untimely death."

"Sure." Luke said flatly. It was pretty, and he had always been a little vain, but his days of playing dress up in his aunt's clothes were fifteen years behind him.

The old woman's eyes narrowed. "Jesus wore a dress you homophobic bitch."

Luke inhaled sharply. "You're right. I need it. And the Chanel boots." He tossed his boring selection to the side and found a tight yellow leather jacket, and a pair of black trousers and a black velvet turtleneck. Yes. This. This was why he was here. There was something… intangible, untouchable, unknowable, but entirely real that had drawn him here. Some kind of…  _ force _ .

Suddenly, a halo of light appeared around him. From the blaze, a woman's voice spoke.

"Luke, sweetie." She said, her voice like bells and blue milk and  _ home _ . "I'm so proud of you. Get the Versace belt too."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is still from Fleetwood Mac's Little lies.
> 
> I was going to tag this with inappropriate use of the force (because it is), but then realized that's what people tag when they want to write about magic handjobs. Padame's legendary galactic wardrobe is a thing, and the First Order destroyed it by jettisoning it out of the airlock in one of the Poe comics.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading.


End file.
